


Be Good, Reims

by cellophaneflowers



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Toronto Maple Leafs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellophaneflowers/pseuds/cellophaneflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toronto is HIS team and it's HIS crease.  James is fully prepared to defend it.  But then he meets Bernier and it all begins to unravel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Good, Reims

**Author's Note:**

> Part dare and part request because this is kind of a pairing out of nowhere. Not much else to say here except the ship is kind of growing on me? I think there'a potential for more. We'll see.

It starts with the first day of training camp. It’s a gorgeous day outside - bright, sunny, and warm. It doesn’t do much for the smell of James’ equipment in the back seat, but with the windows rolled down it isn’t as noticeable.

He arrives at the practice facility and chooses one of the open spots closest to the door. No one bothers him as he unloads his bag, hikes his pads over his shoulder, and grabs his stick. It puts him in a good mood, even though he knows media will be buzzing around inside, with their recorders ready and cameras flashing. But James is optimistic about this year. He stopped thinking about the way the season ended months ago, and yeah there was a lot of talk about a shiny new goalie over the summer, but this is _his_ team and it’s _his_ crease. And he’s prepared to defend it.

But then he meets Bernier. Or, rather, sees him walk by for the first time. The media is crowding around and after _him_ , not James. And in that moment, James swears the universe has slowed down, and Bernier and the cameras just linger indefinitely, his smile smug and almost menacing.

"So I see you’ve met Bernie." The voice is in his ear and James snaps back to the present where everything is moving at a normal speed. He turns and sees Joffrey standing shoulder to shoulder with him, a knowing look on his face. "So what do you think?"

James keeps his voice neutral. “I haven’t met him yet. I don’t think anything.”

"That’s a well-practiced answer." Joffrey flashes a grin. "Don’t worry, Reims, you got this. See you on the ice, buddy." He claps him on the back and wanders off, his own bag rolling behind him.

James forgets Bernier for the moment. But it’s because his eyes can’t help but linger on how gloriously tanned Joffrey’s arms are.

James is ignored by the media during the pre-season and for the most part he’s okay with it. But the way Bernier keeps being touted as the starter rubs him the wrong way. He tries to keep his irritation levels down, because Bernier hasn’t done anything wrong to _him_ personally, but it’s hard. It’s really hard.

Everyone on the team expects them to be friends. They’re probably used to how close their tandem used to be. But Gus and Ben were different. They were special. They were there to support each other, hold each other up, and carry the team together. James can only feel that Bernier is there to push him down and step over him on his way to the top.

He refuses to be beat down, and thus turns in on himself more and more. It’s a competition and he’s going to be the best. October is a good month. James - and the team as a whole - play strong. But the moment HBO shows up with their cameras, James begins to notice a few things.

The biggest of which is how he starts seeing less and less time between the pipes without any reason. He tries not to let it bother him, and focus on what he might be doing wrong and how he can improve. But every time he overhears Randy Carlyle tell someone it’s “win and you’re in”, James can feel himself get just a little more frustrated.

It’s not long before he can tell a decision has been made somewhere. It’s written in the way Carlyle looks down at him, speaks to him less. Even Bernier can no longer meet James eye-to-eye, and James shouldn’t hate him for it, but he does.

He still has friends. He knows this. Several of the guys keep inviting him out to dinner, and James always accepts because he’s too nice to ever say no. He smiles at all of them because that’s what they expect, and they can’t be worrying about his souring relationship with the coach. The team needs to succeed. That’s what’s most important, James tells himself over and over again. And if he stabs his steak a little too hard or gets a little snippy with Peter Holland when the kid just tries to pump his tires (because he’s not playing the next game, surprise, surprise), it’s not because he’s frustrated or angry or any of that. No. He’s not allowed to be.

James often finds himself loitering alone in hotel lobbies when they’re on the road now, because if he goes to his room, Bernier will want to _socialize_ and James just can’t with him. It’s nothing personal and he hopes Jonathan knows it, but when they face each other, all James hears is the coach telling everyone over and over again how everything he’s given for the team in the past couple years is not good enough. That _he_ is not good enough.

He makes friends with the hotel bartenders, and hates himself for it. James doesn’t drink much and never has. He was raised in a simple household, but he’s modern enough and enjoys a beer every now and then. But one tends to become two, and three, and four, and so on until he’s able to finally will himself to wobble into the elevator and pass out in his room without a word to his roommate.

Joffrey finds him like this one night, and James thinks someone must have snitched. It was probably Bernier. He probably knew. Thinking about it causes him to growl into his glass without realizing it, which causes Joffrey to raise an eyebrow as he takes a seat next to him at the bar.

"I didn’t know you could pound them back like that," Joffrey says, observing the empty glasses James has lined up.

James doesn’t say anything. He wants to because Joffrey is nice and has seemed to always have his back (whether it’s a tap on his pads or a nudge of the shoulder), but alcohol seems to make him miserable these days and James is afraid if he opens his mouth, the wrong thing will come out.

Joffrey presses on anyway. “How many have you had?" James shrugs. The beer doesn’t taste as good with someone next to him. The flavour of self-loathing is overpowering.

"I’m fine," he finally says, trying to sound as confident as he can. "I’ll still be good for practice tomorrow."

"I’m more worried about the game."

James can feel bitter resentment welling up inside him again. “I don’t need to be sharp to sit on the bench.”

"Oh." The word is heavy coming from Joffrey, and James can’t help but turn his head. That’s it? That’s all he has to say? Just an "oh"? An unexpected "oh." Joffrey is frowning. It looks just as perfect as his smiles, which, James thinks, is not something easily done. Then his hand is on his arm and Joffrey is getting to his feet and pulling him ever so gently. "I think you’ve had enough. Let’s get you to your room."

James resists. It’s not that he’s particularly attached to his unfinished beer, and he’s probably better off not doing this, but it’s Joffrey. His fingers curling around James’ sleeve sends electricity running up his arm and James doesn’t understand why or why he wonders what it would be like to feel Joffrey’s hands on his skin. The thought alarms him and James tries to push it from his mind.

But Joffrey’s eyes are pools of green and James can’t help but follow dumbly, his stomach a mess of knots and his mind clouded and confused.

Joffrey leads him to the elevators and presses the call button. “So you’re with Bernie again, right?”

"Unfortunately," James mutters under his breath. At least he thinks he did. He can’t be sure though because Joffrey glances at him with a knowing look.

"So that’s it, eh? Why you sit at the bar and drink crappy beer?"

It’s not his business to know what James does with his time and why. He should tell Joffrey this. But instead what comes out is some garbled version of half-truths.

"You’re drunk."

James shrugs. Joffrey shakes his head and presses his hand into the small of James’ back, guiding him into the elevator.

James feels the flash of warmth again. It runs up his spine this time, and down below…

He hisses under his breath.

He watches Joffrey press the button for their floor and lean against the wall. His eyes rove over James, sizing him up and - a small, still logical part of James’ mind can tell - thinking up a lecture that won’t hurt his feelings. But James just finds himself sinking further and further into the heat of those green eyes. He tugs at his collar. His face is probably blushing red. If only he were more in control of himself. If only he were calmer. If only Joffrey wasn’t looking at him with that perfect face.

"Reims, are you alright?"

He’s far from all right. He’s a mess. His career is spiraling out of control; the coach hates him no matter how many pucks he stops; he’s probably becoming an alcoholic with the way he’s been drinking; and in spite of this all he can think about is the perfect line of Joffrey’s jaw, and the fire burning in the pit of his stomach.

"You can talk to me, you know. I’m here for you, remember?"

James knows. But he can’t talk. His voice is caught in his throat, and he’s fighting hard to prevent what blood hasn’t run to his ears and cheeks from rushing to-

"Oh good god," he groans, and forces himself to break eye contact because Joffrey’s face is too perfect and too handsome for his own good.

He must look like he’s dying, or about to collapse because the elevator suddenly comes to a shuddering halt. James isn’t expecting it, but catches his balance and is about to utter the closest thing he can think to a swear word because of _course_ the night would get worse when he sees Joffrey’s hand on the button panel.

Worry is written all over Joffrey’s face and James feels terrible for being the cause, but before he can apologize, Joffrey is in his face, gripping his arms tightly. James can smell the faintest hints of the cologne he wears, and Joffrey is saying something, but James isn’t listening because they’re so close together and every fibre of his being is screaming at him to do something - _anything_ \- to release the tension before he explodes.

James pushes into the kiss so quickly, Joffrey never sees it coming. In surprise, his hands let go of James as if they’ve been shocked, and he makes to take a step back, but James’ hands grip his hips, keeping him firmly planted at a distance James thinks he can get away with. It’s wet and clumsy and tinged with alcohol, but James is glad he’s done it. Even if, when he pulls back a moment later, Joffrey is staring at him like he’s gone mad.

"What the fuck was that?!"

Words fail James as a new feeling of equal parts panic and dejection set in. He’s done it now. At worst, Joffrey is going to punch his face in, at best he’ll blame the alcohol and never look James in the eye again.

In a panic, James repeatedly presses the button to get the elevator moving again. He can’t look at Joffrey - won’t look at Joffrey and the look of utter horror and disgust he must be wearing. The lift shudders back into life and James presses the button for the next floor. He doesn’t mind taking the stairs. He simply can’t be trapped in this elevator any longer than necessary.

Joffrey sounds confused when he calls to James to slow down - to calm down. But he sounds far away amidst the turmoil of James’ own world and the blood pounding in his ears. He sees him move out of the corner of his eye, but James moves too quickly and is dashing out the door as soon as they open.

"Reims! James, stop!"

"I-I can’t! I’m sorry…!"

He runs down the carpeted hallway, turning corners blindly, looking for the staircase and all the while silently praying none of the regular guests are up and outside their rooms.

It’s a short distance past an ice machine and through the stairway door, but it’s relieving. The air in the stairwell is cool, and James braces himself against the railing, breathing heavily and trying to sort the fog of his mind out.

His body is still burning deep inside from Joffrey - his smell, his taste, his everything - but his mind is stuck on his reaction. James feels rejected and he knows it’s his own damn fault because what was he thinking kissing his teammate, but Joffrey was all he had left. The only thing he still had to support him. But he’s ruined that now, and James whispers a frustrated curse. Did he really somehow think Joffrey wouldn’t jump back? That he’d do what, exactly? Fall into James’ arms like some stupid fairy tale? Not exactly, but part of him had hoped… Hoped what, he wasn’t exactly sure, but he expected some sort of release from it. Not embarrassment. Not shame.

Resigning himself to his waiting roommate (which suddenly doesn’t seem all so bad), James straightens up. He doesn’t want to, but he’ll blame the alcohol in the morning and Joffrey will never speak of it again. It doesn’t help the dejection pooling inside, but it’s all he can do.

James doesn’t get very far before the door to the stairwell flies open a second time with a loud bang. Startled, James turns, and finds himself staring down at Joffrey who looks - and James can’t believe it - slightly flustered himself.

He calls up to James to stop, and James wants nothing more than to run away like a frightened animal, but there’s a power in Joffrey’s voice and in his gaze that keeps him rooted to the spot. Joffrey takes the stairs two at a time, and James can see despite the flush in his cheeks, there’s a change in his eyes. Joffrey looks almost predatory and James is torn between dreading the fist that surely is about to be swung at him, and admitting to himself that the intensity of his gaze is arousing him all over again.

Joffrey catches up to James on the first landing and grabs him by the wrist. James begins to recoil immediately, but in one fluid movement, Joffrey’s other hand grabs his shoulder and forces him back. James is nearly knocked off balance and hits the wall hard. He vaguely considers defending himself, but Joffrey is on him in an instant, crushing their lips together.

James’ mind comes screeching to a halt. He can feel his entire body go rigid in surprise and for a moment, James just stands there, dumbfounded. Then reality washes over him, and James can feel himself sinking, deeper and deeper into a confusion of emotions and the sensation of Joffrey, warm and wonderful.

It’s slow and deep, calculated and practiced, nothing like the hectic mess James tried in the elevator. Joffrey’s hand on his shoulder is firm and comforting, his other hand creeping up James’ side and James can feel himself responding, tugging at Joffrey’s shirt and pressing himself up against him. Their hips connect and James can feel himself blush as he realizes they both now know how hard he’s getting, but Joffrey doesn’t pull back, instead snaking his arm down and around James’ waist, holding him firmly.

A moan escapes James, deep and gutteral and then Joffrey’s tongue is there, invading and claiming. James wishes he hadn’t been drinking earlier; he’s teetering on the edge far too soon. But then, almost as if he can read his mind, Joffrey breaks off the kiss, still hovering in front of James.

Joffrey’s eyes are searching, reading James and calculating. James isn’t sure what he’s mulling over, but his arm is still around his waist and for the first time all evening, James is beginning to feel not quite relaxed, but a little calmer. Joffrey is in control and James is happy to follow.

"Let’s get you to your room," Joffrey whispers, and James thinks maybe it’s code for something until he remembers Bernier.

"Not like this," James replies, a twinge of anger burning in the back of his mind. Joffrey doesn’t get to rile him up and then drop him off on someone else. Bernier hasn’t made him hard. Bernier hasn’t kissed him. Bernier doesn’t have deep green eyes and olive skin that James can’t help but wonder what it might look like contrasted against his own.

"James, you’re better than this," Joffrey continues. "You’re a good-"

James cuts him off as he decides to move his hips in a small circle, rubbing up against Joffrey’s crotch. Joffrey hisses and tries to protest, but James wants this - needs this. He has since the beginning and he’s not naïve enough to fall for some poorly concocted excuse about being bad news. James has fucked before. He’s not a sweet angel, and Joffrey is not all devil.

"R-Reims…". Joffrey’s protest is weak and half-hearted. He looks at James, frowning and unsure for one moment. But James stares right back.

They come together again, but now it’s rougher, more fevered. James feels himself pinned against the wall, unable to move as Joffrey’s hands rove over his body, travelling down his chest and stomach until James can feel his palm cup around his groin. James groans against him, fisting his hand in Joffrey’s short curls, terrified if he doesn’t find something to anchor himself, he’ll fall over the edge.

Joffrey works his hand gently a few times and the friction is absolute torture. It’s wonderful but not enough and James needs more as he strains against the confines of his clothing. Another squeeze and James finds himself whimpering against Joffrey and just about ready to beg. But then the zipper comes down and James feels his pants pool around his ankles.

Joffrey’s hands come back up to his hips, and James feels himself turned around roughly, and bent over against the wall. The surface is cool against his cheek, but the position is uncomfortable and he can feel Joffrey’s pelvis pressed up against the curve of his ass. He hears Joffrey whisper in his ear to trust him, that it’ll all be fine, and James can only nod quickly and grit his teeth, as Joffrey reaches around and begins to work him over.

His hands aren’t gentle but that’s just what James wants. He’s fevered and desperate, and Joffrey’s hand is rough, but James finds himself moving his hips both against Joffrey and with him, his pacing eratic and full of need. Joffrey steadies him with his other hand, whispering in James’ ear, guiding him, and it’s all he can do not to scream at the pressure building inside him.

He moans, helpless in Joffrey’s grasp, and he’s close, he’s so damn close he’s nearly trembling. Joffrey’s whispers change to kisses, around the shell of his ear and down his neck, and James feels himself tipping, closer, and closer…

His orgasm hits him hard and sudden and James cries out as he comes, spilling his release on Joffrey’s hand and the concrete wall. He can still feel Joffrey’s hand on his cock, working through it, but his mind is an explosion of sensation and relief as he feels himself empty, tension dissipating and the knots in his gut loosening.

Joffrey moves away as James slowly collects himself. Careful to avoid the mess he’s left, James leans against the wall, his breath slowing, trying to compose himself.

Joffrey doesn’t say anything, glancing at James briefly before he produces a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and tries to clean off his hand. James should feel embarrassed, and he can feel his cheeks flush slightly, but he doesn’t regret it. In fact, he rather enjoys having left something of a mark on Joffrey.

He reaches down, hiking his pants back up. They’re a little damp and uncomfortable, and James thinks the smell of his spunk will probably follow him up to his floor, but Joffrey is smiling mildly at him, and James reaches to pull him close, ready to return the favour.

Joffrey’s clean hand flies out and presses firmly into James’ chest, stopping him at arm’s length.

He shakes his head. “No, James.”

James blinks dumbly. His mind has grown dull and a little sluggish now that he’s coming down, but Joffrey’s still dressed and not as ruffled as he’d like him to be. And James has every intention to change that. Isn’t that what Joffrey wants?

"You’re too good for this, Reims," Joffrey says, and James wants to be upset but Joffrey’s eyes are warm and caring and it makes James feel weak and obedient.

"Besides…". Joffrey’s voice gets dangerously low, as he pulls James in closer. "We’re not fucking when you’re drunk in a stairwell. There are better places."

The words hang heavy in the air as Joffrey grins and lets go of James. James racks his brain for something - anything to say, but he remains stuck on Joffrey, on the promise lingering as he watches him walk away, climbing the stairs without another word or a look back. And James smiles for the first time all night because he knows Joffrey will follow through. James promises to make sure of it.


End file.
